


What The Heart Wants

by Berty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual John, Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, Drugged Sherlock, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, John is not Happy, M/M, Masturbation, Mycroft Being Mycroft, POV Sherlock Holmes, Relationship Advice, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is an unwilling poet., Sherlock's transport is smarter than he is., Stream of Consciousness, Trapped, non-canon timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 16:53:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12040170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: It's just an average evening at 221B.“What could you possibly want to talk to John for?” Sherlock demands and realizes a nanosecond too late that John might find that a tiny bit offensive and make…ah, yes… that face.Mycroft wants advice. Sherlock wants a clue. John wants a cup of tea.





	What The Heart Wants

**Author's Note:**

> Actually the first Sherlock story I wrote - in Sherlock's POV no less, not doing THAT again - so it's fluffy! Imagine that most of the additional tags have the word 'fluffy' in front of them. 
> 
> With thanks and love to Pepe and Saladscream for angsting with me over the format and enduring me changing my mind repeatedly. And big, Brit kisses to Missgeoffreychaucer for being my audience/advisor/sanity while writing this.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr. Come and say Hi if you like. @bertytravelsfar

When Mycroft arrives at Baker Street one dreary October evening, Sherlock realises that something unusual is happening and is instantly annoyed that something about his brother has interested him, even if only momentarily. He quickly selects the most insulting or irritating thing he can be reading while ignoring his older brother. John’s reprehensible Dan Brown paperback? Sports section from the latest Observer? Four-day-old Evening Standard _? Ahhhh…yes!_

He throws himself into his chair, hearing the determined… _determined?..._ knock at the door and doesn’t acknowledge Mycroft’s entrance at all, merely slouches further behind the box of Rice Krispies.

“Ah, the cloying domesticity of simple city-folk,” Mycroft observes, singsong, but it lacks his usual scornful edge.

Interesting. His brother’s heart isn’t in it tonight.

“Hello, John,” Mycroft oozes.

“Evening, Mycroft,” John says heading for the kitchen with their dirty plates and cutlery – and really, he’s getting much better at ignoring Mycroft’s theatrics, Sherlock thinks. Then he wonders if it is Mycroft’s theatrics or Holmes theatrics in general that John is becoming immune to and dislikes the uncomfortable stomach flipping sensation that accompanies the thought.

“What have you come to bore me with this time?” Sherlock asks, his irritation getting the better of him. Not irritated enough to lower the cereal packet he’s not-reading though. Obviously.

Mycroft smiles and inclines his head at John. “Actually I was hoping to have a conversation with Dr Watson.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick up at John, standing between the kitchen and the sitting room; he’s smiling politely, probably trying to squash the overwhelming urge to offer people tea.

“What could you possibly want to talk to John for?” Sherlock demands and realizes a nanosecond too late that John might find that a tiny bit offensive and make…ah, yes… that face.

30 % disappointment. 50% exasperation. 10% offence.

The remainder is a fluctuating combination of affection, patience and forgiveness.

“Cheers for that,” John remarks mildly.

“I was hoping for some advice,” Mycroft continues, “with something of a delicate nature.”

That sounds like… the truth _,_ Sherlock thinks. Mycroft is discomforted by the topic, not trying to bother to hide it. Grasping his umbrella handle too tightly, blinking too fast. So it’s something… personal?

He dives back behind his Rice Krispies when Mycroft catches him peeking.

John offers Mycroft a seat, a small, uncertain smile on his lips. He’s wondering if this is some sort of joke at his expense but he can’t say that because he’s a doctor and _delicate nature_ means something different to him ( _genitalia_ ) than it does to Sherlock ( _distasteful, dull and/or potential blackmail material),_ so John can’t risk it.

Pulling up another chair, John completes the triangle. “Tea?” he asks before he takes his seat and Sherlock sighs audibly.

And everyone thinks it’s Sherlock that has a problem with addictions.

“No, thank you,” Mycroft demurs. And that’s interesting too, because although Mycroft often says no to John’s offers of tea, he does enjoy sending John off to make it when he has the time and opportunity to do so, which he clearly does tonight. Sherlock suspects that it is aimed at himself in some way, but he hasn’t quite worked out why yet. (Possibly power? Possibly to demonstrate that he is not the only Holmes brother who John likes enough to make tea for? But Mycroft doesn’t know that John always takes extra care when making Sherlock’s tea – clean spoon, favoured cup, biscuits if they have them.)

Tea pleasantries dispensed with, John sits down and leans forward in his seat, elbows on knees, making himself look more approachable. “I assume it’s alright for Sherlock to hear what you’re about to ask,” John confirms with yet another smile.

That _does_ cause Sherlock to flip the box down, causing a small spray of puffed rice to shoot across the rug.

“I don’t suppose there is any point in excluding him from the discussion, “Mycroft sniffs, his eyes raised heavenwards. “He’ll only drive us both to distraction with his guesses otherwise.”

“I don’t _guess_ ,” Sherlock mutters venomously and flicks his breakfast packet back up to demonstrate how very boring Mycroft’s _delicate nature_ is to him. And probably to John too.

“Fine. How can I help?” John says.

Confiding. Practical. Sympathetic. Interested, even! That must be how he says it at the surgery when all the dull people bring their bland ailments for him to endure, sorry, diagnose. How does he bear the tedium?

 _Bit not good,_ John’s voice tells him in his mind with somewhat alarming regularity these days.

“There is a certain…person of interest to me,” Mycroft begins.

Uncomfortable. Embarrassed. Reluctant but hopeful. Wait, _what?_

John twitches and he blinks, but he nods for Mycroft to continue.

“And knowing of your particular talents in such areas, John, I wondered if you might be able to advise me on a suitable approach?”

 _No! Really? Oh my god!_ Sherlock is dizzy with the myriad ways in which he can displease his brother with this new development. His skull can barely contain it.

“Talents?” John smiles – new smile – puzzled, open, wary. “Tracking people down? Isn’t this more Sherlock’s area of expertise?”

_Wrong!_

“Male or female?” Sherlock demands, flinging the cereal box away and ignoring the unfortunate sounds that follow.

“Irrelevant, wouldn’t you say?” Mycroft spits back, his eyes narrowed.

Sherlock ignores him too. “Met them at work, did you? Don’t answer that, you rarely go anywhere else. So statistically more likely to be male. Someone you’ve worked with for some time but not one of your vacuous assistants. Too simple, even for you. So someone challenging, someone clever. Well, relatively speaking. Someone interesting. MI6 perhaps. Must be quite high up to have the kind of security clearance to have attracted your attention…”

“As is so very often the case, you are barking up the wrong tree entirely, brother mine,” Mycroft sneers, “Which is why I have come to ask Dr Watson for advice, not you.” His stress on John’s professional title isn’t only for Sherlock, he knows, it’s also meant as a compliment for John. Clever Mycroft!

John clears his throat and sounds delightfully surprised. “Dating advice? You’re asking me about…about dating advice?”

Both Mycroft and Sherlock forego their scowling contest in favour of turning back to John.

“If you would be so kind,” Mycroft smiles unctuously.

John rolls his bottom lip into his mouth. ”What, really?” he asks, eyebrows creeping comically far up his forehead, and when no one replies, he sits up straighter and mutters. “Right, right. We’re doing…this.”

Sherlock sometimes wonders if Johns knows how much he expresses with the movements of his facial muscles. It’s fascinating to watch the flow of his thoughts across his face, like watching a time-lapse landscape from a hilltop on a day of sunshine and scattered cloud. _Sunlight, shadow, sunlight, shadow._

John chuckles softly. “I don’t actually know that I’m the best person to ask,” he says with a tip of his head and a palm at the back of his neck.

He’s disappointed not to have successfully attracted a mate, Sherlock realises. He likes being part of a couple and considers it a failing on his part that none of the advances he’s made have gone beyond a couple of awkward dates without taking into account that none of those women were even vaguely compatible with him. The doctor one… Sarah? She had shown some promise initially, but for some reason she had been less keen after the crossbow incident. The others were all simply too dull to hold the interest of a man like John Watson for more than a fleeting moment and they must have known that.

“Nonsense, John,” he finds himself saying, “You’ve had twelve dates with eight different women since January.”

“Fifteen dates with ten different people,” Mycroft corrects softly, smiling at Sherlock smarmily.

“Seventeen,” John says, too loud and too fast drawing the glowering gazes of both himself and Mycroft. He clears his throat again and scratches an eyebrow. “Seventeen dates. Eleven people. The point is none of them came to anything, Mycroft, or else I wouldn’t be here, on a Friday evening, arguing with a couple of posh twats about who can invade my privacy most effectively.”

“Ah, but you did get eleven people to say yes to you in the first place, John, and that ‘yes’ is my current goal,” Mycroft says, somewhat smugly as if he’s proved a point.

John’s lips go thin and he shrugs. “Yes. Yes, I did. Fine. What do you want to know?”

“How did you get them to notice you?” Mycroft asks immediately and even Sherlock knows how insulting that sounds.

 _Bit not good_ , Mycroft! Bit not good! Ha! That will offend John.

But no, John twists his lips uncomfortably and looks away. “That’s not your problem, Mycroft. You’re a Holmes. Trust me when I say that they’ve noticed you.”

That’s probably true _,_ Sherlock concedes. Neither he nor Mycroft are fond of being overlooked, unless that is their intention _._ But why does that make John’s mouth turn down and his shoulders hunch like that? Is he coming down with something?

“Be that as it may, they need to be noticing me for the right reasons,” Mycroft persists. “What might be done to encourage someone to view me in a more… flattering light? Perhaps as a potential love interest?”

“Love interest?’ Sherlock yelps, filled with an unholy glee but Mycroft shoots him a blistering glare and to his surprise, John has an answer.

“Notice them back,” he shrugs, direct eye contact, steady as a rock.

Mycroft watches John carefully, hanging on his words.

“Let them know you’re watching, that you see who they are and that you appreciate them.” John seems to realise who he’s talking to at that point and adds the caveat, “But don’t be creepy. Don’t analyse them! Keep all _that_ information to yourself because it scares people.”

“Most people,” Mycroft says quietly and thoughtfully, and lets his eyes slide across to where Sherlock has his most bored expression ready and waiting.

John blinks and gives his ‘I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about’ shrug. “Does any of that help? I’m sorry, you kind of took me by surprise with the…” he gestures something incomprehensible, then resorts to, “… asking.”

“It’s enough to be going on with,” Mycroft replies, getting to his feet and ignoring the crunch of puffed rice beneath his handmade Oxfords. “I’ll see myself out. Goodnight, John, and thank you.”

A silence settles after the front door has closed and Mycroft’s car has peeled back into the London night. Sherlock taps his opposite fingers together one at a time following the melody of a Telemann Fantasia.

John hasn’t moved, his eyes glazed over deep in thought. “Well,” he says finally. “That was…” He runs out of adjectives obviously because his next word is, “Tea?”

Sherlock nods absently but his mind is firmly stuck on his brother’s visit to the extent that when he next looks up, a cold cup of tea sits at his elbow, the lights in the hall are out and John has retired for the night.

-o –o –o

Sherlock hasn’t slept well and he’s been flopped dramatically on the sofa for over forty-five minutes before his flatmate finally deigns to make an appearance.

“Morning,” John offers with his usual affable demeanour. He wanders into the kitchen without awaiting a response. Of course, nothing must impede his morning tea ritual. England could fall, the very world could be in danger of annihilation by giant, mutant slugs, and still John would insist on a cup of English Breakfast before he sallied forth to save it. Probably with table salt.

“Tea?” he calls. Predictable. Inevitable. Boring, although…

“Please,” Sherlock replies with as little grace as he can. He is trying to make a point here, but he is actually quite thirsty.

Returning with tea and toast, John settles into his armchair with his dreadful paperback. Really, it’s almost as if Sherlock isn’t lying there in obvious misery.

“Well?” he demands, leaping off the sofa and completely failing to make John jump. He stalks over to his chair where John has left him a steaming mug and a plate of jam on toast.

John just glances up at him mildly from over his book as Sherlock folds himself to perch on his cushions.

“Mycroft? The _delicate_ advice? His _love interest_?”

John shrugs. “Perhaps he just fancies someone? Even the British Government needs to get his leg over once in a while.”

Oh God! Has John lost his tiny, miniscule mind? Mycroft and sex in the same sentence.

Delete, delete, delete!

“Urgh, please!” Sherlock scoffs. “No, there’s more to it than that. He’s never shown the slightest interest in courting or wooing before.”

“Wooing?” John grins, rolling the word around his mouth as if it were delicious, but Sherlock ignores him.

“He’s lived perfectly contentedly all these years without an attachment, so why now?” he ponders.

“People can change, you know,” John says slightly pointedly. “Maybe he’s lonely. Maybe he’s not met the right person before.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You sound like the worst kind of advice column. It’s disturbing.”

“Anyway, since when do you care what Mycroft does? Wooing or otherwise?”

“I don’t!” Sherlock replies with a slight wrinkle of his nose at John’s teasing, and eats his toast with slightly more force than is probably warranted. He has the horrible feeling that he’s missing something.

He _hates_ that feeling.

-o –o –o

Flexing his fingers and wincing at the vicious scratches adorning his hand, Sherlock scowls at John’s lingering amusement over his fight with Mr Tiddles. They are hanging around Lestrade’s office, waiting for the Met’s woefully inadequate forensics team to locate an overlooked but key piece of evidence Sherlock needs when something occurs to him.

“Oh!” he says softly and turns to look more closely at John.

The horrid, cheap lighting makes John look tired, even though it’s only a little past lunchtime, but it doesn’t make him look wary – that’s all his own. “What?”

“Yesterday, when I said you’d dated eight women, Mycroft said ten _people…”_

“Yes, well done,” John murmurs, glancing towards the door. “I bloody _knew_ you’d pick up on that. If you could just keep your voice down, I’d be grateful. Not everybody is unhealthily overinvested in the details of my private life.”

Sherlock obliges, turning to face the window rather than look at his scowling friend. “So you’ve dated men. I mean, of course I’d noted that it was a possibility but you’ve only ever brought women to the flat and I assumed that you were repressing a latent attraction…”

“Stop talking!” John hisses. “God! Fucking Mycroft! It’s like living in a George Orwell novel! And I’m not repressing anything, you pompous berk!”

“How did I miss that?” Sherlock asks himself, mostly ignoring John’s little hissy fit. He’s usually better at this, not that he’s particularly interested in John’s dates. He watches his flatmate from the corner of his eye. “Unless you… ah! In March you went out ‘for a pint’ with Nick from work twice. And then there was that conference…”

John stretches and closes his fingers into a fist but doesn’t say anything, just stares straight ahead.

“The best lies are always the ones closest to the truth,” Sherlock says admiringly. Clever John – obviously the time he’s spent around Sherlock has had a beneficial effect. “Hiding in plain sight, that’s…”

“I wasn’t hiding,” John barks, and then smiles apologetically to the young officer who comes in to drop a file on Lestrade’s desk. He looks startled at the outburst and leaves them again with a slightly concerned glance as he goes.

“I wasn’t hiding, Sherlock. Hiding implies that I don’t want people to know about…” John says in a soft but agitated voice, leaning in toward him stiffly. “Look, this has nothing to do with you or your bloody brother, so you can both just piss off.”

Sherlock risks a glance at his colleague and is surprised to see that John is really angry. It is clear in every shadow on his face and the hard line of his shoulders. Is he angry because Sherlock has found out about the extra dates? Or because some of them were men? Or is this a more general reaction to the Holmes’ scrutiny of his life? Why is this so difficult to deduce?

Surely John knows by now that he doesn’t choose to notice such things about his environment – it just happens. Sherlock may have noticed the behaviour but he has no opinion on it either way. Does he? Of course he’d rather John didn’t waste valuable time and energy on his pursuit of sexual gratification but Sherlock doesn’t actively attempt to sabotage his efforts… Well, only in urgent circumstances, like Chinese smuggling rings or bodies missing from the morgue or to foil a kidnapping attempt or that one time he… Oh.

He sneaks another peek at John’s face and winces. He clears his throat and his expression. He’s made an error of judgement and he knows what he must do next. “You’re upset, but you must know that I…”

“Found it,” Lestrade announces, striding through his door with an evidence bag and an explanation Sherlock tunes out in favour of focusing on the till receipts that will prove his suspicions about a blackmailing case and lead to the arrest of an unpleasant seventy year old Neighbourhood Watch Coordinator.

Sadly he can do nothing about her homicidal cat.

-o-o-o

It’s very quiet in the taxi on the way back to the flat, but John seems to have calmed somewhat and Sherlock decides to try to explain again, if John will let him. He still isn’t completely clear on why John is upset and that makes any apology he might have to offer less apposite than he would like. But it’s nagging at him, the unhappy slope of John’s shoulders, the tight jaw and the way he won’t look at him. He can’t seem to ignore it as he usually would with anybody else.

“Don’t,” John says the second Sherlock’s ‘John,’ drops into the tense atmosphere, like ice in an overfilled glass.

Damn. Sherlock breathes in to try a different tack, but John shakes his head and looks out into the busy streets that crawl by. Sherlock is unaccustomed to this tense, unhappy mood from the man beside him. Or at least if John is unhappy, Sherlock can usually pin down what it is that has caused it. Quite often it’s him, unfortunately. And John isn’t usually one to hold a grudge – he says his (normally quite lengthy) piece and moves on, which has turned out rather well for Sherlock over the years of their acquaintance. But this feels different.

“I’m sorry,” John says quietly with a tiny, shuddering sigh when Sherlock has all but given up on today. “’I’m not repressed and I’m not hiding. I’m not ashamed of dating blokes, Sherlock. It’s just…it’s personal. It’s bad enough that I’ve failed to impress any of the dates I’ve brought back to the flat without having an audience to watch me get rejected by both sexes.”

“It’s all fine,” Sherlock murmurs slowly, marking each word. It makes John turn, the hint of a smile returning to his grim expression.

_Finally!_

“You remember that?” John asks and huffs a laugh when Sherlock simply raises an eyebrow at him.

“Anyway, “ Sherlock continues, relief making him careless. “I’m not an audience. Why would you care what I think?”

The almost smile on John’s lips is gone again instantly. “I have no idea,” he shrugs and has the door of the cab open even as the driver pulls up outside 221B.

-o –o –o

John is downstairs paying for their dinner delivery when his phone buzzes from the kitchen. Sherlock happens to be passing and notices his brother’s name flash up.

He knows it is unreasonable to blame Mycroft entirely for John’s recent tense mood, but it doesn’t stop him from intercepting his texts. He wants John’s exasperated smiles back. He wants his good-humoured teasing. John looks _uncomfortable_ since his brother’s visit and his discomfort feels like milk curdling inside Sherlock’s brain, sour and foetid; it’s distracting him.

**First step accomplished. Please advise how to proceed. MH**

_Fatuous prick,_ Sherlock thinks.

He’s just pressed send on a short, pithy response when he hears John’s tread on the stair. He briefly ponders dropping John’s phone into a handy beaker of 28% nitric acid, knowing he doesn’t have time to cover up what he’s done, but this is still the phone Harry gave John and he doesn’t want to upset his friend further.

What is it idiots say? The best defence is a good offence. Facile, but it might work.

“I replied to Mycroft for you. No need to thank me,” Sherlock says, waving a hand as if brushing off John’s gratitude. He clears a space on what John insists on calling a table, but which is in fact plainly his workbench.

“What did he want?” John asks, rolling his eyes – Sherlock _thinks_ it’s at his mention of Mycroft.

“More advice,” he admits as John’s phone starts to buzz with several messages arriving in quick succession. He winces when John’s eyebrows climb further and further up into his hairline as he reads, then he chuckles and turns the phone toward Sherlock.

**Mummy will be so proud of your adventurous vocabulary choices when I tell her. MH**

“Tell-tale,” Sherlock grumbles. “Insufferable arse.”

John then spends a few moments composing a reply that he sends without even looking at Sherlock, and Sherlock has more pride than to ask what was sent, so they settle down to eat.

On the positive side, the exchange seems to have cleared the air somewhat, and Sherlock basks in the tentative return of his good-natured flatmate. Of course, that doesn’t stop him from checking John’s reply when he pops to the loo an hour later.

**Try a smile and a hello, see where it goes from there. JW**

And then.

**A genuine smile. Not the frightening one. JW**

Sherlock’s still sniggering about that when he returns, and John smirks and doesn’t even need to ask him why.

-o –o –o

The next few days are a blur of little sleep, seedy streets and at last, blue flashing lights when they crack the ring of unimaginative but well-funded people-traffickers. Both he and John are relatively unscathed although he is sporting bruising and abrasions to the skin of his ribs and collar thanks to being kicked several times by one of the more athletic and co-ordinated of the thugs. He’d waved off the paramedics at the scene, but he’d been running on adrenaline at the time.

“Here. Let me look at that,” John mumbles when they finally stumble up the stairs to their flat and shut the door. Sherlock shucks his coat and jacket cautiously and slides onto the sofa, weary but still pleased at their evening’s work. John is already there with his kit and Sherlock is too tired to argue. He just sits and watches as John uncovers the scrapes, his fingers are steady and dexterous, undoing buttons easily and he goes to work with his anti-bacterial wipes which are cold, pungent and sting like the devil.

“Ow!” Sherlock mutters dully, but John just rolls his eyes at him. It’s not very bright in here, and John is working by the light spilling from the kitchen and a single table lamp. He looks tired but competent, focussed on his task. He lifts Sherlock’s arm and props it on the back of the sofa while he cleans the scrapes along Sherlock’s ribs.

There aren’t many people that Sherlock gets this close to physically… not living ones anyway… and he uses this opportunity to observe the details of John. His face is so familiar, the crows’ feet beside his flecked blue eyes, the thinness of his lips and the way his tongue peeks out when he’s concentrating. His hair is greying already. John would probably make a joke about that at Sherlock’s expense. He wonders what it is about John that has made their association endure as long and as comfortably as it has – certainly nobody else has ever been in Sherlock’s life so comprehensively as the good doctor.

“No pain anywhere? When you breathe deeply?” John asks, his fingers following the line of purpling from his armpit to his collarbone. His touch is firm and not at all unpleasant. It sends goose pimples skittering down Sherlock’s arms. His body is still thrumming from this evening’s adventures and the awareness of John’s warm hands on over-sensitized skin is merely an extension of that.

John smells of bitterly cold air and London and a little like the washing powder he uses for their laundry. Other than the grey, John’s hair is made up of twelve different colours up close like this and in this light. Sherlock struggles to accurately name more than eight of them.

“Sherlock? Any pain?”

He just hums far back in his throat, and John seems to understand. The antiseptic cream smells even more vile than the wipes… and really, are both wipes and cream necessary or does John get a kick out of smearing him with filthy-smelling medications? But it _is_ cooling on the heat of the scrapes and it’s a nice counterpoint to John’s warm fingertips.

“Thank you,” Sherlock mutters as John puts away his kit, which gets him a bemused little smile. Sherlock returns it and the moment stretches without becoming taut. He eases himself down to lie on the sofa. He’s beginning to ache now that John’s finished. Damn all the pestilent thugs in London’s criminal underworld, do they all have to wear such heavy boots? It feels like every one of them has had a hand in the way Sherlock is feeling this evening.

“Hmm.. nope, you’re going to be feeling those by the morning. You’ll hate yourself if you sleep on there, and that will make me hate you in sympathy, so come on.”

Sherlock cracks open an eye to find John’s hand stretched out in front of his nose, fingers wiggling. He swings a leaden arm up to smack his hand into John’s palm and lets himself be pulled up and shuffled into his bedroom where John sits him down, pulls off his shoes and covers him with a blanket.

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock says but doesn’t hear a response.

-o –o –o

The next time Sherlock manages to get hold of John’s phone there are two more text exchanges with his hopeless brother. It’s not that he’s interested in Mycroft’s love-life or lack thereof, but the criminals of London seem to have decided to be boring all at the same time and Sherlock is seeing how long it takes John to notice his lack of a phone.

One text is merely inquiring after their health following yesterday’s arrests; the other, longer conversation is another question about gaining the attention of the mysterious object of Mycroft’s affections.

He knows that his brother will recall that Sherlock once proposed to a woman, and was (briefly) accepted in a brilliant effort to gain access to her employer’s office – a scheme which had taken weeks of romantic subterfuge and some rather brilliant play-acting on Sherlock’s part. So why hasn’t Mycroft asked him for advice when technically his own dating track record actually surpasses John’s?

Sherlock suspects it’s something to do with the ‘technically’ part.

John is being very patient with Mycroft’s complete lack of knowledge in the ways of love, and Sherlock wonders if that is why Mycroft asked him in the first place. John is, above all things, a good man and he won’t laugh at other’s ignorance, not even when it’s someone as patently clueless as Mycroft Holmes. There’s some proverb about people who live in glasshouses nagging him, but Sherlock mentally swats it away.

“Stop stealing my bloody ‘phone, you maniac!” John grouses, snatching it from Sherlock’s hands. He’s been out to get milk to put on his remaining Rice Krispies and from the way the bag is bulging, he’s also bought biscuits. He shucks his coat and stomps into the kitchen.

Maybe he should warn him about the tonsil experiment being conducted in the fridge, Sherlock thinks but deduces from the swearing that John has worked it out for himself. Excellent. Saves him the trouble.

“I’m not sure that Mycroft is going to be able to follow your latest piece of advice,” Sherlock calls once the muttering from the kitchen has subsided.

“Why not?” John asks, returning with a bowl and spoon and tucking in with apparent relish, bizarrely enough.

“Have you ever seen Mycroft striking up a casual conversation with someone?”

“Nope.”

“Imagine the most horrifically embarrassing moment of your life and multiply it by the power of ten. That’s Mycroft making small talk. There is a reason his office is so heavily guarded – and it’s not for _his_ safety.”

John snorts inelegantly and struggles to keep his breakfast behind his lips. And is it Sherlock’s imagination or does the day get a little brighter?

“Unless he’s playing a part he’s incapable of casual,” he explains.

John swallows his mouthful and licks his lips to check he hasn’t missed any. He has, there’s a smear of milk balanced at the corner of his mouth, which Sherlock finds strangely endearing for the few seconds before he realises it and squashes it mercilessly.

“That’s hardly fair. Maybe you just don’t ever see that side of him; arch-enemies so rarely do,” John says with a resigned shake of his head. “You’re neither of you exactly at your most lovable when you’re around each other. Different people have a different take on things though. There’s no reason why Mycroft couldn’t meet someone who suits him perfectly.”

Sherlock has never heard anything so preposterous.

“The world is a wide and varied place, John, but where might one find a paragon of patience with the intellectual capacity and understanding to love someone like Mycroft? I think Mummy and Daddy do only because they have to. Biological imperative and all that.”

“You’d be surprised,” John tells him thoughtfully. “Love’s a funny old thing. You never can tell what will work and what won’t. The heart wants what it wants.”

Sherlock frowns. Has John been watching daytime television again? Lost use of his higher brain function? “How trite. Are those song lyrics?”

“Nope. Hard won personal experience,” John says with a brittle smile. “Tea?”

Sherlock is about to expand on the faults in John’s argument, but his retreating back makes him think that the conversation is over. And really, he’s getting so much better at understanding John’s non-verbal communication he thinks.

-o –o –o

“John!”

“Right here.”

Well, that’s alright then. It turns out that John is the warm lump sitting on his bed beside him. But there was something he needed to tell the warm lump. No, two things.

“’John!” he whispers. “Johhhhhhhn! I think I’ve been drugged. I think they’ve… drugged me!” he tells the lump.

“Open your eyes, Sherlock.”

Sherlock does. He was right; it is John.

Unknown psychoactive drugs cannot diminish his…thing. The thing that he has… Genius! Cannot diminish his genius.

How very warm John is, he thinks. Must be something to do with all the ugly jumpers and tea. And his scent is making Sherlock’s mouth water. How good must John taste when he’s so warm and fragrant? Not that he’d bite him, no. He’d just put his teeth on the place where John’s shoulder and neck meet, rest them there and press down very gently. Just to feel the give of his warm flesh.

So, where was he?

Warm and dark and in his bedroom. Right.

Wait! Why is he in his bedroom? Oh, right, drugged. Boring.

Wait! Why is it dark?

Sherlock arches his back and twists until he can see that it’s night-time outside and the only light is coming from the hall through his open bedroom door.

“Look at me for a second,” John suggests and that sounds like a good thing to do, so he does. It’s not good though, not good at all because John puts a hand against his forehead and shines a light…thing into his eyes.

“Urgh!” Sherlock says and scowls. “Did they drug me?” he asks when John has finished being horrible.

“Yeah, they did, but don’t worry, we know what it was. You just need to sleep it off. I’ll be here to check on you.”

That was quite a lot of words, though they also sound quite good, but John can be sneaky, so he doesn’t close his eyes just yet. Besides, he has the other thing.

_Oh, yes!_

“Do you think it might be you… that Mycroft is trying to woo?”

That rhymes. Oh, dear God, _that rhymes!_

John laughs, bright and surprised, which isn’t kind when Sherlock hasn’t even explained yet, still concerned as he is about his poetic tendencies.

“I mean… he sees you quite a lot. He smiles at you and notices you and you’re lovely and everything. And warm – that’s important. That’s…key.”

“Yeah?” John asks but he doesn’t sound sure, so Sherlock thinks of more ways in which John Watson is, in fact, the ideal man.

“And you’re just the right height for leaning on. And you smell nice.”

“Steady there, mate. I wouldn’t want to get a big head.”

“And the shooting thing. That was…good. Sexy. Impressive.”

“Go to sleep, Sherlock. I don’t think your brother has me in mind.”

“Well he should! Or he’s an idiot! Well, he’s an idiot anyway. And I wouldn’t get in the way of your heart thing if you loved Mycroft too. I think I would be sad though.”

Sherlock’s world without warm or jumpers or shooting or tea would be hateful. Worse than hateful. Pointless. Sherlock wonders if he should cry now before it’s too late and John has gone off with Mycroft without knowing that he was crying…

“And I suppose you’d be my brother. Brother-in-law! That would be…something. Nest bext thing…nexxxxt besssst thing.”

His pillow really is very soft and if John has stopped being sneaky he could close his eyes now.

“Next best thing to what, Sherlock?”

“What?”

“You said it would be the next best thing if I were your brother-in-law.”

“It really would.”

“What would?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Go to sleep. I’ll be here.”

There’s a slightly annoying whistling in his ears, but the warm lump of John is very warm and he curls closer. God, he feels so good. Except…

“Next best thing to you being **his** brother-in-law,” he remembers. “D’uh!”

-o –o –o

Sherlock has only been up for a matter of minutes when the deeply irritating sounds of Mrs Hudson come cooing around the door. He’s in no fit state to be receiving guests, let alone annoying, nosy, uninvited ones who wear perfume for a woman half her age. She makes the whole flat smell wretchedly patchouli for ages afterwards.

“Morning, John,” she says, ignoring the horrifying glare Sherlock has mustered just for her. “How’s our boy this morning?”

“Quiet,” John replies, coming out from behind his newspaper. “Unlike last night.”

“Shut up!” Sherlock snaps but both John and Mrs Hudson are grinning at him in a particularly offensive manner.

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed, dear, no harm done. You were very funny though!” And both she and John snigger before schooling their faces. John rolls his lips into his mouth.

“I particularly liked the bit about how he couldn’t do it without us,” John nods.

“And the bit about your jumpers,” Mrs Hudson twitters. “That was almost poetic, dear.”

Sherlock slits his eyes and sighs. He has a sudden recollection of warmth, a feeling of safety and John’s eyes going wide in surprise.

Just when he thinks this day cannot get any worse, Mycroft comes posturing into the room with an air of smugness that exceeds his usual background level of smugness by about 80%.

“Whatever it is, the answer is no.”

“Really, Sherlock, you are testy this morning. Anyone would think you’d had an eventful evening.” Mycroft smiles a slightly terrifying acknowledgement to Mrs Hudson and John, which they, of course, return equally inanely. It’s all just so very, very hateful.

Sherlock wonders whether he might hyperventilate from the amount of sighing he’s had to do lately. Of course his ridiculous brother would have to come and irritate him – it’s not like he’s supposed to be running the bloody country or anything… _oh, wait!_

Mycroft, fishes his stupid little notebook from an inside pocket and stares down at it carefully, hoping to hide the fact that he has to hold things a good distance away these days. Too proud to wear glasses. Pretentious cock.

“Could it be that…’no one understands your genius?’ Or that John has failed to appreciate his duty to… ‘be all lovely and clever and warm’ this morning?”

“Your concern for my well-being is touching,” Sherlock drawls, eyes flicking to the fond but subdued smile on John’s face. “Tell me, who do I have to thank for your quotes? Or have you managed to reinstall cameras in the flat?”

“Cameras?” John mutters, looking slightly worried, but Mycroft only smiles. He probably thinks that looks reassuring. Sherlock knows otherwise.

“Sadly not, but Gregory was able to brief me on the more entertaining parts of your soliloquy.”

“Gregory? Is that one of your lackeys?”

“Inspector Lestrade.” John rolls his eyes and looks long-suffering. Sherlock simply slants a look at him and John explains. “It’s Inspector Gregory Lestrade.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” John nods. It looks like this is not the first time they have had this conversation or something similar, but John knows Sherlock’s policy on useless information.

“Yes, really. He tells me that there is video footage too. Priceless,” Mycroft enunciates with a tight smile and an unnerving twinkle in his eye, turning to the stairs where yet another pair of feet is currently ascending. Familiar with the staircase. Tired. Unfit. Hesitant? _Urgh, really?_

“Are we hosting a party that someone has neglected to mention?” Sherlock growls and thrashes around to a more comfortable position to hate everyone from.

Lestrade appears in the doorway. There’s a moment’s awkward shuffling as they all exchange nods and quiet hellos and Sherlock scowls at them all, imagining the most expedient way to cover up a multiple murder. Of course these are four of only five people he speaks to on a regular basis, so he reluctantly files those plans away. But he can’t quite bring himself to delete them.

“How’s Cuddles this morning?” Lestrade asks. He turns an amused smile towards John and tips his head toward Sherlock.

“Long gone,” John says with a sad attempt at faux wistfulness.

“Pity, he was almost likeable for a while,” Lestrade jokes…if it can be labelled as such. “Can I get you two down at the Yard at some point today? We need statements from you both.”

John makes positive noises and Sherlock cannot stand another second of this.

“Well, this has been _fascinating_ , but some of us have things to do.”

Everyone turns to look at him. Now, quickest way to remove annoyances from his immediate vicinity? This is almost too easy.

“So, it’s soul mate to find, illegal houseplants to tend and rocks to bang together,” he lists viciously, his eyes flickering along the line to judge the impacts. They all react beautifully to his taunts with squawks, sneers and disappointment. Lestrade, especially, turns a magnificent shade of fuscia and seems to have lost the ability to speak. No great loss.

Eventually after obligatory feather ruffling, which he ignores, they leave him to his brooding.

“They only tease you because they love you, you grumpy bastard.” John has retreated behind his paper once again.

“Tedious. Pointless. Misguided.”

John puts his paper back down for that. He’s wearing one of his long sleeved T-shirt things that Sherlock secretly rather likes. They make him look a little less correct than his usual buttoned up style. “Misguided how?”

“Whether they love me or not, I’m not going to be more or less acceptable than I already am.”

“They’re not doing it to change your behaviour. In fact, what I think you should be taking from this is that they love you despite the fact that you’re a bit of a wanker at the best of times. They love you anyway and they’re not looking for any kind of reward. That’s not what love is.”

“Really, John? Lestrade couldn’t solve his way out of a paper bag without me, Mycroft sees me as a liability to me monitored most of the time and a useful asset at others.” Sherlock sniffs and shrugs.

“Right.” John presses his lips together. That’s never a good sign. “And Mrs Hudson?”

“I told you, she owes me a favour.”

“Which she has repaid by renting you this flat for a fee we can afford, way below the going rate for central London. That doesn’t explain her on-going interest.”

“Unfulfilled desire for offspring. Sees me as some sort of son figure possibly.”

“Or,” John leans forward to emphasise his point, “or she just loves you. For no reason at all, other than who you are.”

“Unlikely.”

“Why? And if you say sociopathic tendencies I will add bleach to all your mould cultures for a month.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and lets his head loll over the back of his chair. “John, don’t you see it is your sentimentality filling in the gaps for you? That is who you are. People make judgements about others every second of every day, maybe they’re not even aware of it, but it is your nature to think the best of these people, based on very little evidence. People rarely do things without some perceived benefit to themselves, whether consciously or subconsciously.”

“So what about me?”

What? “What about you?”

“Why do I stick around? If you’re such an unspeakable, self-centred prick…which you are, by the way…why am I still here?”

Sherlock sits up and narrows his eyes. That’s an interesting question. John leans back, keeping the gap between them the same, but doesn’t look away.

“We have a mutually beneficial arrangement, I get your assistance…”

“Yes?” John said quietly, and Sherlock can hear distant, tiny, alarm bells ringing in the halls of his mind palace. John has his ‘things are not good’ squinty eye thing going on.

“… and you get access to a certain lifestyle that you find fulfilling. You enjoy the buzz…”

“I could take up sky-diving for the buzz.”

“You can afford to live in a city you love…”

“I could find a full-time job and afford something on my own if I wanted to.”

“I give you something to blog about…”

“Seems a high price to pay, hanging around with you for a few thousand hits on a website I don’t make any money from.” John picks up his paper and smoothes it on his knee. “Must be some other reason I stick around…”

“What other reason?” Sherlock demands, reassessing the order of his arguments about why John remains where others had feared to tread.

“Well, you’re the genius. I’m the idiot, remember? Let me know when you find out.” John settles back behind his paper and pretends to ignore the scorching, face-melting glare Sherlock levels at him.

o- o- o- o-

Sherlock doesn’t keep regular hours when he sleeps. He can force himself into marathon periods of wakefulness when required, and similarly he can sleep long and deeply when the urge comes upon him. But he can only have been asleep for a single REM cycle before he’s awoken by John – not in person, but by thoughts of him that refuse to stay firmly within his grasp now his eyes are open.

Waking from dreams of John, although not uncommon usually leave him rationalising the subject matter, but that’s not the case this time. Instead of sexual arousal, which accounts for 54% of his dreams of John, or unaccountable feelings of contentment, which make up another 31%, this is something quite different. Not quite a nightmare, he cannot deny that he is left feeling unsettled and uncomfortable. Worried? Possibly. No doubt John’s recent mood has everything to do with his brother’s idiotic infatuation with this mystery paragon of patience and poor judgement and is, therefore, to blame for Sherlock’s unease. Mycroft should not be distracting John with his plainly imbecilic requests for advice.

So, what could have made Mycroft abandon a lifetime of scorn for romantic idealism? The man who insists that one should never get involved… because this is a total volte-face on a lifetime of disinterest. What or who could have caused him to rethink his entire stance on forging relationships with others? Sherlock knows he is missing something, but what?

Unless…. No.

Maybe… but no, because that would be contrary to all he knew about his brother.

If… impossible.

Perhaps…perhaps…perhaps he just needs a cup of tea. Where is John?

And there it is. The rush of the answer flows through his entire body, hollowing him out, washing away the vile uncertainties that cluttered his mind before.

_Of course!_

What does Mycroft do better than anyone else on the planet?

He interferes! He thinks it is his fraternal duty to stick his fat nose in where it is most definitely not needed or required. He’s just not usually this subtle.

Mycroft has invented a passion, _knowing_ that Sherlock will be party to all the communications between himself and John in an effort to enlighten Sherlock and push him in a desired direction – in this case into forming a romantic attachment.

Mycroft isn’t learning how to woo someone… _he’s teaching Sherlock how to do it._

Sherlock’s first instinct is to pull on his coat, hail a taxi and go round to his brother’s mausoleum of a house and lay the fool out cold.

That is also his second and third instinct, but then he begins to consider the possibilities. Why would Mycroft want this? What would he gain from it? Or is this what John was blathering on about yesterday? About people doing things for no other reason than love? Does Mycroft surreptitiously care for Sherlock and his happiness? And of whom might Mycroft approve to the extent that he is going to such lengths to provoke the desired outcome? John said…

_John._

Of course, John! He is the only person since his university days that has interested Sherlock enough to cause him to even begin to consider accessing his feelings. Sometimes. On occasion. Maybe twice.

And for his part, John has proved himself many, many times to be Sherlock’s equal, if not intellectually then in courage and tenacity and forcefulness. He has smoothed Sherlock’s sharp edges, ignored his deficiencies, embraced his eccentricities and basically stuck around longer than anyone else has. His balance. His fulcrum. His conductor of light. The McCartney to his Lennon. The Moneypenny to his Bond. The Luke Skywalker to his Han Solo. The Short-Round to his Indiana Jones.

And when did Dr John Watson become _essential_ to him? (And also clutter up his hard drive with the most fatuous popular culture of the latter 20 th century?) Is that the same as love? He’s not so out of touch as to not recognise his preference and fondness for John over all of the rest of the human race and certainly his subconscious has proved itself capable of imagining John in sexual scenarios if his dreams are anything to go by.

Could Mycroft be right? He’s always insisted that he is the smart one. Is Sherlock in love with John without knowing it? Does he even _want_ to be in love with John? Can he risk his one real friend in such a dangerous gamble? Would John even be open to the idea of Sherlock being in love with him? Because presumably John would expect some kind of say in this decision… Who knows?

And how is he ever going to live with the dangerous levels of utter smugness that his brother will positively _exude_ when he and John…

When…or if?

That sets off a whole new set of probabilities to dance around his mind and Sherlock groans, reaches for his dressing gown and pads into the living room to find his violin.

-o –o –o –o

John arrives in the kitchen doorway looking rather nervous. His eyes scan all four corners of the room as well as other entrances and exits before he proceeds, like a good little soldier.

“Good morning,” Sherlock smiles… easing it back a bit when that just makes John look more alarmed.

“Morning.”

He waits for John to take a seat at the table, and then places a cup of tea down in front of him.

“Oh God, is it drugged? Just tell me this time, rather than being all cloak and dagger about it,” John sighs and rests his elbow on the table, his fingers massaging his forehead.

Sherlock bites back a cutting response – a shame because it was a good one – reaches around John and takes a healthy swig from John’s cup before putting it back in front of him.

John looks meek as he then picks up the cup and does the same. “Lovely! Sorry, sorry, I just… You’re making tea. It confused me.”

He looks even more confused when Sherlock deposits toast before him. Well, he says it’s toast but he got a little distracted by the toaster dial numbers and unfortunately it was the last of the bread and he didn’t want the smoke alarms to go off _again_ , as that seems to make John irritated, so he’s cut off all the blackest bits and covered what remains with jam.

“Umm, aren’t you having any?” John asks carefully, trying to find a corner of ‘toast’ that he can pick it up by.

Oh, god, this is a disaster already and he’s only been in love with John for five hours and seventeen minutes.

He pauses to think of John’s advice for Mycroft. Try a smile. Check. Let him know Sherlock’s watching him (he knows how John takes his tea – ample evidence of Sherlock’s observational skills which were surely never in question anyway…) Check. Notice him. Right. What does that mean exactly?

Sherlock takes a seat in front of John and steeples his fingers. “You look…”

Like you could love me? Like you want me to love you? Like you might be making me think things I’ve never imagined thinking about anyone before?

He’s obviously taking too long because the look of dread that John directs at Sherlock is unexpected and uncalled for.

No visible stubble. Damp hair. No sleep-residue in eyes. Clean t-shirt. Mint toothpaste and Dove soap.

“… clean.”

John blinks at him and his eyebrows sail up his wavy forehead quite delightfully. “Clean?”

“Nice… you know, well turned out,” Sherlock elaborates, and really, _should_ it be as difficult as this?

“Are you dying?” John asks suddenly, leaning over the table to bring himself closer to Sherlock’s face. He breathes in toothpaste and soap and Baker Street.

Sherlock shakes his head, “What? No!”

Sitting back in his chair, John contemplates his plate for a moment. “Am _I_ dying?”

Ridiculous man. “No one is dying. Well, strictly speaking, hundreds of thousands of people are in the process of dying and one hundred and five die every minute on average, but none of that is relevant to this situation.”

This isn’t going at all as he expected it to go.

“It’s just that this is all a bit… well, scary,” admits John with a shrug.

“I simply wished you a good morning, complimented your person and made you breakfast.”

John points at him and beams at him, “Yes, that was the scary bit. That was it exactly.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and retreats to have a bath and consider his next move. And to get rid of the jam and the distressing smell of carbonised bread.

o- o- o-

John replaces the lighter fluid that Sherlock has just put in his shopping basket, then sighs and shoves all Sherlock’s other choices back on that shelf too, even though it’s clearly not where he got them from.

Matches. Cling film. Frozen lamb leg. Ouzo. African Violet plant. “Scallops?” John queries, pausing on that item for some reason.

“Yes! They have a similar texture to the muscle tissue of…”

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to know,” John interrupts him. “Just…just tell me why you’re here again. In Tesco. With me.”

Sherlock blinks at John because this is ridiculously evident and he wonders if John’s having a little joke with him.

Aaaaaaand no.

Apparently not.

“You often complain that I never do the shopping. This month alone you have mentioned it three times in relation to milk, once to butter and …”

“Right, but…” John interrupts again, and Sherlock wonders if he’s going to be allowed to finish any of his sentences. “But… I mean for you to do the shopping independently. As in without me. To save me having to go here at all.”

Ah.

“So you wouldn’t consider this to be an interest of yours?”

“What?” John rather theatrically casts his widened eyes around the aisles filled with harried-looking Londoners purchasing tinned pineapples and cheap shampoo. “Tesco?”

“I may have miscalculated. I equated the number of your visits with the enjoyment you derived from them.”

John gives him his disappointed stare, the one that he pulls out whenever Sherlock has failed to understand (or deleted) something basic that’s also, incidentally, mind crushingly boring.

So his attempt at following yet another of John’s wooing tips would seem to be a failure. Showing an interest in your crush’s hobbies and interests. Sounds simple. But John only seems to like tea, jumpers, running around London with Sherlock and takeaways. Drinking beer with Lestrade while watching football might count but that means Sherlock would have to 1. Drink beer, 2. See Lestrade and 3. Watch football. He shudders.

There must be something. Maybe there’s an ugly jumper museum in London – god knows there’s a museum for everything else – a Dental Museum, a Magic Circle museum and a museum dedicated to fans to name but three.

Google fails him but John’s eyes are narrowed, and that’s rarely a good sign.

“What’s going on with you today?” He leads the way to the self-scanning checkouts with their (now boring) shopping.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asks, sorting his features into something guileless. John, however, is not buying it.

“You! Breakfast and shopping. It’s not my birthday; I checked. It’s beginning to get unnerving,” John mutters as he uses the till with surely unwarranted levels of concentration. Sherlock knows of John’s on-going vendetta with electronic payment technology, but he hadn’t quite been prepared for his take no prisoners attitude.

John glares at Sherlock until he starts to put the items that he is so meticulously scanning into a carrier bag. Thankfully there is no altercation with the till and they are soon back on the street and heading for home.

John has his thick black coat on against the chilly wind and a… is that his scarf? Sherlock is momentarily stunned that he hasn’t noticed before now – he has to be more vigilant if John has become so necessary to him that he doesn’t even notice when he’s taking advantage! Not that he would. John is too kind for that. And that blue really is quite fetching on him.

Now he thinks about it, his scarf has been smelling of John more recently and he had attributed it to it hanging on a hook next to the collar of John’s coat where the scent of him is most concentrated. Which he didn’t do deliberately, of course. Or even notice himself doing.

Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes through his nose, nearly walking into a pedestrian in the process.

Alright, so it is becoming increasingly apparent to Sherlock that at his most fundamental human level, he has been in love with John Watson for some time but hasn’t noticed, living as he does in the higher levels of his consciousness. Now he _has_ noticed though, these primitive urges are causing him to appreciate so many aspects of the good doctor that he’s fairly beset by them.

Did Mycroft see it? Did he observe the fact that Sherlock’s transport had taken matters into its own hands and formed an attachment to John without his mind’s agreement or blessing? He’s been ignoring his body’s spurious needs for so long, he’s become _good_ at it. So what were the signs? In what underhand ways did his body betray him? Would he ever have noticed it himself? And now that he has noticed, will he ever be able to ‘unnotice’ it if John, very sensibly, decides that a relationship with Sherlock Holmes isn’t what he wants.

He quickly and adeptly pickpockets John’s mobile phone and checks that no more messages have passed between his brother and his… and John. There’s nothing.

 **How’s the latest piece of advice going? JW** Sherlock texts behind his back.

The chime of Mycroft’s reply is easily covered by a quick cough.

**Go away, Sherlock. And give John back his phone for God’s sake. Endeavour to remember you’re an adult. MH**

Useless! Stupid Mycroft and his stupid advice and his stupid noticing of stupid things!

And now he’s incapable of forming an adequate insult, even in his head.

Love is a _terrible_ thing!

But… he’s been living with John for a long time and seen John’s game with potential lovers before. Not lately though, which is interesting. So what would John have done next, given that he had captured the attention of someone?

John is capable of imaginative thought and can, on occasion, surprise Sherlock with such, but as far as dating is concerned, John Watson is a traditionalist. He would have invited them for dinner or maybe to the cinema. He would have taken them for coffee. He would have written them poetry.

Sherlock and John eat dinner everyday – well, some days. Sherlock has sat through numerous terrible films on the telly of an evening because John enjoys them. John buys him coffee too, whenever they are on a case. So…poetry?

_Roses can be red_

_But violets are not blue_

_Poetry is stupid_

_And so are ninety-eight per cent of the humans I’ve encountered._

Oh, God. There’s no hope for him.

o-o-o-o-o-o-

“Are you alright? Did they hurt you?” is what Sherlock is trying to say but having duct tape over his mouth is making it a little tricky.

John is reacting as best he can in the circumstances; the circumstances being that they are locked in the boot of a large saloon car being driven to an unknown destination by a trio of criminal ‘muscle for hire’ types who were expecting John and Sherlock about as much as Sherlock was anticipating them, which is to say not at all. He’s not even convinced that they’re connected to the case they’re working on – occupational hazard of hanging around in some of the city’s less salubrious locales.

“Are you okay?” John murmurs, sounding a lot more awake than the state he was in when last Sherlock could see him properly. It’s almost as if he can hear John’s training taking over. His voice is tight and quiet but it’s not panicked. “Sherlock?”

John they had hit in the head and stunned, correctly interpreting that he was the most physically dangerous to them before carting him away. Sherlock they had gagged, bound and thrown into the boot of a Volvo on top of his unconscious friend.

Sherlock knows that the space isn’t likely to be airtight, but it is very dark and there are two grown men using up the oxygen that is only being slowly replenished. He calculates that they have less than fifty minutes of useable air left before they begin to feel the effects of anoxia.

He can feel John’s movements becoming more deliberate and coordinated. Checking his bonds (they are both bound with tape at the wrists and ankles, arms behind their backs). Checking their confinement (no internal release mechanism on this particular model). Good man under pressure, John Watson.

“Sherlock. Can you talk?”

Sherlock makes an irritated noise that can’t be interpreted as anything but a ‘no’. John’s been out for roughly eighteen minutes and Sherlock has been more than a little worried. They are a jumble of arms and legs, John facing up on his back and Sherlock on top of him facing down, his face turned toward his friend and smashed into the filthy floor of the boot.

John begins to writhe beneath him and it takes Sherlock a few seconds of processing the sensation before he realises that John has contorted himself to bring his nose to Sherlock’s neck. He begins to explore what he can reach of Sherlock’s face with his nose and cheeks and lips. It’s…intimate and Sherlock knows his breathing has faltered at the touch of John’s mouth against his jaw, the feel of his stubble against Sherlock’s cheek and the slip and drag of John’s soft, thin lips on his chin.

John presses his heels into the wall of the boot space and stretches as far as he can, grunting in effort, his breath making warm gusts across Sherlock’s face, and causing the skin on his forearms to rise and prickle with goose pimples. John’s lips part. Warm, slightly wet pressure against Sherlock’s cheek.

Of all the times for his transport to be taking over, this has to be the worst. It’s damned inconvenient but, _god,_ so good. And what is John thinking to be writhing around in such a way? What could he possibly gain by…

_Oh!_

John takes hold of the corner of the duct tape with his teeth and tugs it. He loses it a couple of times and has to use his lips and tongue together to get enough purchase on the tape to begin to pull it off. Once Sherlock finally gets on board and actively works with John, rather than just laying there like an idiot, they manage to get his mouth free in a short time.

It stings like the devil but Sherlock can now suck in a decent breath of oily, polyester fibre scented air as John goes limp beneath him from the strain of contorting himself.

“Are you alright? “ John pants. “What happened after they hit me?”

“Not much,” Sherlock says, his voice coming out a lot more scratchy than he’d like, but John doesn’t seem to notice. “We’re in the back of a stolen car and have been heading west for about sixteen minutes.”

“Can you reach my phone?”

“They took them.”

Fast, straight road. Little traffic at this time of night. No traffic controls to speak of. M4. Lack of engine sounds from both sides, so probably turned on to A4 but have not crossed the river. (No telltale difference in the noise of the road.)

“They’ve been arguing. Someone isn’t going to be very happy with them bringing back potential witnesses.”

John’s face is still very close to Sherlock’s. It makes him aware that he’s been trying to breathe in John’s scent rather than the dusty, plastic, petrol scent of the boot carpet. It’s calming and familiar – he needs to keep his wits about him and this helps.

“And none of them has the stomach for an execution or two,” Sherlock says.

“Well, that’s the first good news this evening,” John mutters.

“Well…” Sherlock begins.

The car changes gear, slowing down and Sherlock rolls further onto John as they take a corner, unable to stop himself with his hands and feet bound as they are. John has worked his thigh beneath Sherlock’s hip in his efforts to remove the gag, and this brings their groins into rather intimate contact. Now John may be the observational equivalent of a long-sighted man on a foggy day but even he cannot fail to recognise that Sherlock is ragingly hard. And really, there is no end to his transport’s treachery it would seem.

There’s an intake of breath and a loaded second of silence before Sherlock throws himself as far away from John as he can in the enclosed space, which just isn’t far enough.

“It’s the adrenaline!” Sherlock blurts like an idiot. “Autonomic nervous system response to stimulus.” And speaking of which, here comes the heat to his cheeks and Sherlock is relieved that John’s night vision is not great.

“I know, Sherlock. It’s fine!” John tells him. He sounds calm. How can he be that calm?

“I know it’s fine!” Sherlock returns petulantly.

The kidnappers take a long, curving right and Sherlock braces himself as best he can so he doesn’t roll into John again, but there’s very little he can do with the position he’s in. The side of his head mashes into John’s face and Sherlock’s ear is trapped against John’s mouth, and that is really not helping at all. Because now John’s rather ragged breathing is hard to avoid and each correction on the steering wheel brushes John’s lower lip against Sherlock’s very sensitive earlobe that he didn’t even bloody know about until now.

His erection is riding John’s thigh and John is breathing through his nose now as if this is a PTSD exercise. Sherlock’s tensing his thighs in an effort to make some space for his cock, because the friction of John’s jean-covered muscles is going to result in a very unfortunate situation in about sixty seconds.

God! This would have been awkward before but now Sherlock has recognised that he is apparently attracted to John, this is excruciating! He should be focusing on getting them out of here – and to be fair, he _is_ brilliant enough to be horny _and_ following their route in his mind, looking for opportunities to get them out of this predicament – but the pace of the self-revelations of the last few days has him working at a less than optimal level.

Then John sniggers. It’s such a shock, that Sherlock can’t place it for a second, but now his chest is shaking and he’s puffing short, hard pants of air over Sherlock’s ear.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” John giggles. “I know you said you were married to your work, but getting a hard-on for it is taking it a little far, wouldn’t you say?”

God bless John Watson and his reckless lack of regard for personal danger or badly timed innuendo. Sherlock finds himself smirking, even though John can’t see it.

When the car (thankfully) straightens up, they slow down to a crawl. Sherlock can see that they are in an area with only sporadic street lighting. He scrambles away from John again and listens – ignoring John’s efforts to get his breathing under control as best he can. He can hear very little over the sound of the engine. There’s a sharp but slow turn to the left and they are descending a very steep hill, which is odd because Sherlock knows what road they are on and it’s not on a gradient of any kind... And then the cold, flat, salt scent of the Thames drifts beneath his nostrils and this is very bad.

Gravel crunches under the tyres and they slow to a complete stop. John’s eyes seem to have acclimatised to the dark somewhat, as his gaze is riveted to Sherlock’s and they listen to the car doors open and close with a series of reassuringly well-built clunks. There is the sound of a hissed conversation, too faint to hear through the lid of the boot, then the scrape of feet on the gravel fading away to nothing.

For long, long seconds they are still, waiting to hear the return of their captors but it would seem that it is their plan to leave them there.

“Have they gone?” John whispers.

“It would seem so. However, if I am correct, I believe we are in Isleworth on a slipway that leads down to the Thames. It’s behind a derelict factory, quite secluded from the eyes of passing traffic, such as it is.”

“Okay, so what are we worrying about here? Someone will find the car in the morning, we’re just in for an uncomfortable and somewhat breathless night,” John quips. “Because of the lack of air,” he hurriedly amends and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“The Thames is still tidal this far upstream and by my calculations it will be high tide in a little under two hours, meaning that this slipway and the foreshore that we are currently parked on will be under about five feet of water.”

Anoxia. Asphyxia. Drowning. Not a great evening’s entertainment, it must be said.

“Right,” John mutters and commences his thrashing and struggling again. He seems to have some sort of plan to drive Sherlock insane. Of course there’s the threat of impending death to consider, but unfortunately his genitalia have decided that ‘Carpe Diem’ is the way to go.

John growls in frustration. “Bollocks. Okay, look, I’m sorry about this but I need you to roll on top of me and get your legs on my side. Just slide over me and…”

Sherlock grits his teeth and rolls into John’s body. He has somehow managed to flatten himself out more to allow Sherlock the height he needs to lay flush against John.

If there was a more mortifying moment of his life, Sherlock has had the sense to delete it. John is panting again with the exertion of making his body contort into the configuration he needs. His nose buried in John’s hair, Sherlock tries to ignore overload from the feedback he seems to be getting from every sense other than sight. John’s encouraging murmurs and panted orders are the least of it when his entire torso seems to have become one large, poorly timed erogenous zone. There’s the scent of John’s shampoo and the flavour of John’s fresh sweat every time Sherlock breathes through his mouth. It’s dizzying and really just as well John has a plan, because Sherlock’s going to be useless if John keeps straining against him like that. He has obviously ignored the needs of his body for too long because even in his adolescence he doesn’t recall being quite so aroused as he is currently.

John’s got his feet where he needs them now and is kicking out rhythmically. Each time he rocks he is dragging his groin against Sherlock’s, setting up a delicious sizzle in the back of his brain. He’s trying to help, trying to lay still and let John work, but his hips jerk involuntarily each time John kicks. It’s quite shameful.

“I’m sorry, “ John murmurs each time he rocks up into Sherlock and it takes too long for Sherlock to realise that John is in a similar state of excitement. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Suddenly there’s a thump and a flood of cool, damp air as John kicks out the back seats of the car. He stills beneath Sherlock, breathing hard, then turns his head and presses an open-mouthed kiss to his throat, setting off a new set of explosions in Sherlock’s mind.

That couldn’t be construed as accidental by any stretch of the imagination. John kissed him deliberately, but to what end? Relief at their freedom? A thank you for Sherlock’s understanding? Celebrating their teamwork? Is it Christmas?

Then John is gone, inching his way down Sherlock’s body and sliding his way out of the boot and into the cabin of the car. From there it is simply a matter of opening the door with his teeth and falling out onto the gravel to allow Sherlock enough room to roll and wriggle his way onto the back seat. John has already freed his hands by slicing the duct tape against the jagged edge of the slipway’s concrete and he’s working on unwrapping his ankles. Obviously finding his legs won’t hold him, John crawls to where Sherlock is attempting to grab the end of the tape holding his arms behind him with stiff, cold fingers. John slides a warm hand between Sherlock’s own and pulls keys out of his jeans pocket to hack through Sherlock’s bonds.

The water is already up to the wheel arches of the front of the car by now and John hauls himself up to reach in through the back door once more to grab their phones from the floor where he must have knocked them during their escape.

Sherlock laboriously types out a message to Lestrade sitting at the top of the slipway and John sits down beside him, his elbows on his knees as they wait for the Yard to arrive. Their shoulders touch, a warm connection on a bitterly cold riverbank. Shivering, they watch how quickly the car is swallowed by the quiet, inky water.

-o –o -o

Late to the party as ever, Lestrade insists that a paramedic look at John’s head injury which just draws attention to him too, so he also has to submit to an unknown person asking him imbecilic questions and taking his temperature.

Oh, happy day! Ugly, polyester shock blankets all round.

And then his bloody brother turns up for no apparent reason, dressed for a rather more ceremonial occasion than the Thames foreshore at one a.m. Lestrade stares at Mycroft as if he expected him to arrive in his pyjamas. Mycroft would hardly allow himself to be seen in any state but formal (although Sherlock thinks the medals are rather ostentatious), but at least it means that Lestrade is distracted enough that, once he has been assured that both Sherlock and John have incurred no lasting damage, he puts them both in an unmarked car and sends them straight home.

-o-o-o

They’re getting quite proficient at silent car rides, Sherlock thinks. Despite the slowly retreating cold throbbing in time with his pulse and the enduring ache in his shoulders, he can still feel the exact spot on his neck where John kissed him tingling like a scald. He _knows_ that’s a construct of his own psyche and realistically John’s lips left no such mark, but nonetheless he can feel it. Maybe that’s what love is – the ability to believe contradictory truths simultaneously. There can be no mark, yet he is certain that it is there. Loving John is a weakness and it goes against everything he believes in, yet love him he evidently does.

Regardless of the quiet there is remarkably little underlying tension. Sherlock marvels at the self-contained man at his side, a stoic, brave, affable, honourable man with a crack shot and a taste for the riskier things in life. Was there ever really anybody else quite so perfectly suited to Sherlock’s personality? If John Watson didn’t exist would Sherlock ever have even theorised such a person could exist? Would he have experienced the things he’s feeling right now – the uncertainty, the hope, the desire. Sherlock has lived his life knowing himself to be unique in ways others can’t even imagine, but not only can John Watson imagine them, he can complement them, encourage them and be charmed by them. A rare creature indeed.

God, he’s introspective tonight. At least his erection has subsided thanks to the cold.

The London streets slip by and Baker Street finally looms. John thanks their driver and they make their way into the building and up the stairs. Mrs Hudson (who appears to have an informant network or an uncanny knack of knowing what they need) has lit a fire in the grate and they both seem to gravitate towards it instead of retreating to their separate rooms. A stir with the poker and the addition of a couple of logs coaxes further flames from the banked fire, the hiss and pop of the new wood accompanying the tick of the clock as the only sounds.

John sits on the carpet with his back against his chair. He’s pulled off his shoes and socks and is curling his toes into the heat being given off. Sherlock follows him to the floor, and pulls his ruined shoes off, hugging his knees and crossing his ankles. They share a wry smile, catching the other’s eye and holding it. John seems content to simply sit. And it’s not often that Sherlock feels the need to break a companionable silence.

“You kissed me,” he surprises himself by murmuring. He hates to state the obvious, but this is anything but and bears repeating either way.

John tips his head back, interlaces his fingers over his stomach and sighs through his nose. “Yeah, I did. Is that a problem? Do you want me to say it was the adrenaline? Or the crack on the head?”

“Was it?”

“Nope, but it can be, if you want it to be.”

That makes absolutely no sense, but he understands what John is offering here.

“And what’s the alternative?”

John brings his head back down, stares into the fire and considers. “Well, love, I would imagine.”

God, he’s been such an idiot. He wonders how long John’s been telling him that he loves him, not in words, of course, but in every takeaway he’s been persuaded to taste, every blanket that’s been draped over him in the morning after a night in his mind palace and … _oh, of COURSE…_ every cup of tea he’s taken for granted. And in every one of the forty-three different catalogued smiles he’s directed at Sherlock. Like the one John is directing at him right now.

“Recent research suggests that love is actually a habit that is formed from sexual desire as desire is rewarded. It’s like addiction.”

Sherlock blinks as he reflects on some of the stupidity that comes out of his mouth when he’s not paying attention, because John’s throat is exposed and the firelight is sending flickers of shadow dancing over his tired face and all Sherlock wants to do is to follow them with his lips and tongue.

John, however, is not perturbed, but nods thoughtfully. “So when they say rewarded…”

“They mean that the pleasurable feelings that are associated with sexual attraction are paired with an inherent value by the brain.”

And in Sherlock’s case most of that happened without him even realising. To think he might never have known and lived on oblivious to the possibilities a relationship with this man might bring.

“So if I didn’t crack my head, and the only reason I kissed you was love, then…”

“Then you have been harbouring an attraction to me which was rewarded by the pleasure you experienced by kissing my throat that your brain has linked with loving me.” Sherlock watches John for a reaction to his bloodless, clinical explanation of something that feels anything but as it fizzes warm and intoxicating though his veins – the perfect metaphor for the things his body wants and the things that his mind has been dodging for months it seems.

John is highly individual in that he isn’t unnerved by Sherlock’s scrutiny. He isn’t afraid of Sherlock’s deductive process or for Sherlock to know all of him. He alone tolerates the observations without retaliation or an attempt to dissemble. Even when Sherlock’s disappointed him, angered him, embarrassed him – he comes back. He might conclude that John feels that he has nothing that requires concealment, nothing that he won’t willingly share with Sherlock, if only he has the sense to look for it and recognise its significance. Yet John is polite but distant with others, leading to the conclusion that John’s feelings for Sherlock have much to do with trust and honesty. It is a gift that no one else has ever offered Sherlock and perhaps that is why he has failed to see it or value its worth until now.

“Hmm,” John sighs and closes his eyes, giving the impression that he is dozing off before the fire. “We really need to work on your dirty talk.”

Sherlock barks out a startled and undignified snort of laughter at which John quirks a corner of his mouth and opens his eyes. His scrutiny is not subtle and he lingers appreciatively. This is a side of John that Sherlock has rarely experienced before. John licks his lips more often than he should, he holds his gaze when he should look away and he never seeks to put space between them when Sherlock has forgotten personal boundaries again, but this is something more. Something impulsive and blatant and daring.

“But you were right about one thing. It was my pleasure to put my lips against your throat like that. It’s probably as well my hands were tied or the Thames might have drowned us both before I’d even noticed.”

Sherlock shifts and fidgets at the way John’s voice has gone low and smooth. Assured. Confiding. Keen.

Such a basic response to stimulus – he ought to feel ashamed, but instead he feels some of John’s recklessness tonight. He’s warming up nicely now with the fire blazing away before them. He slips out of his suit jacket, throwing it onto the chair behind him, and unbuttons his cuffs, folding the material to mid-forearm.

Stupid. Obvious. But John merely watches him with soft, interested eyes.

“I know you were embarrassed when you got hard but you needn’t have. I know it wasn’t adrenaline and I know it was for me. It felt amazing,” John tells him. “And, of course, it leads me to believe that you might be… what was it? Harbouring an attraction to me as well?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to tell John about how his transport has only let him in on the ‘falling in love with John’ plan in recent days, but on reflection he thinks better of it. “That’s… a sound supposition.”

He hopes he’s projecting more confidence than he’s feeling, aware that although he is not completely inexperienced, he is hardly likely to be as worldly or skilled as John in matters of the heart.

“And what are we going to do about that?” John wonders mildly, looking away to the fire again for a few moments for which Sherlock is grateful. It gives him a moment to breathe. He still doesn’t have an answer however when John looks to him for one.

“This isn’t anything new for me, Sherlock. I’ve felt this way about you for a little while now. But I think I’m right in saying that you’re only just beginning to think about me in that light. Is that right?”

Sherlock manages a slow nod. Of course his body has been attuning itself to John for quite some time now and is making it’s needs known despite his brain’s desperate, distracting scramble to keep up.

“This isn’t just a physical thing for me. I’m not interested in being an experiment for you. Do you understand? So you need to be sure. Let me know when you’ve thought it through,” John murmurs and leans over to take Sherlock’s hand and place a kiss in his palm. He twists his body to get up and that is the last thing that Sherlock wants.

“I’m not sure that more time to think is the best option in this case,” he says in a rush.

It has the desired effect, in that John stills then slowly settles back down to wait for him to find the right words.

He can’t bring himself to look John in the eye, opting instead to keep his gaze fixed on his shoulder. “I think I have been ignoring how I feel about you for some time, rationalising my desire for your company as companionship and assistance with my work. I’ve been doing you a disservice, John.”

In his peripheral vision Sherlock sees John’s eyebrows rise at his confession. His capable hands smooth the denim of his jeans over his thighs, slow and hypnotic. Deliberate? Maybe. Emphasizing his musculature? Definitely.

The quiet intimacy of the moment is causing Sherlock’s body to react. This is no high stress situation like earlier. It’s his choice to be there to share this with John. In some ways that’s more unnerving to Sherlock than the cramped boot of a stolen car. He shifts slightly, straightening his legs to relieve some of the discomfort this discussion is eliciting, hoping to pass it off as settling back against his chair, but John’s tiny smile tells him he’s failed in that.

“So what do you want to do now?” John asks, tipping his head.

Sherlock feels he might have regressed to the awkward fourteen year old he once was. He simply lacks the vocabulary to ask in anything less than clinical terms and John has seen him taking on a persona for a case and would not appreciate that now, he’s certain.

He lets his eyes lock with John’s and licks his suddenly dry lips. John follows the gesture and his eyes darken.

“How about this? I’ll show you what I’d like to do, Sherlock, and you can decide whether it’s something you’d like too.”

Oh, John is brilliant. Wonderful! Full of such insightful ideas.

He shifts closer and slowly brings his lips to Sherlock’s neck, breathing him in, ghosting his lips over sensitive, suddenly hungry skin. “Yes?” he murmurs.

Sherlock doesn’t really trust himself to speak but he tips his head back and swallows – his mouth is too dry suddenly. “Y…” And that’s all the permission John needs. His mouth is so warm it leaves a coolness each time he moves on. Sherlock has to supress a shiver. How interesting that the pleasure of John’s touch provokes the similar physical reaction as the unpleasant sensations of fear and cold.

He kisses along Sherlock’s jaw to the insanely responsive spot beneath his ear. How does John know where to touch, can he see where Sherlock is most susceptible? Has he thought about this and constructed a list?

“Yes?” John asks and it takes Sherlock valuable seconds to notice that John’s fingering the buttons of his shirt. He nods vehemently and feels the curve of John’s smile against his throat.

Surgeon’s fingers, Sherlock reminds himself as John thumbs the pearl buttons quickly and efficiently and pushes his shirt off his shoulders leaving it to pool around his hips. It feels hedonistic to be bared like this, the firelight making his pale skin look ruddy and healthy.

John sits back on his heels. What’s he waiting for? Sherlock hasn’t said ‘no’ or ‘stop’. Some of his confusion must show on his face because John licks his lips then buries his hand in Sherlock’s hair and that feels _… incredible_. Why is he only learning this in his thirties? It’s like there’s a direct connection between his scalp and his groin, and he hums his approval, squirming again to find a comfortable position to take the edge off the discomfort his hardness is causing.

John leans in again, kneels between his thighs and nudges Sherlock’s nose with his own, encouraging him to lift his head so he can softly brush his mouth over Sherlock’s. “Yes?” he breathes.

Sherlock replies by rocking in toward John, opening his lips to him as John takes control of the kiss again. John kisses like Sherlock is the only thing he’s ever wanted. His single-minded focus is dizzying as he angles Sherlock’s head to get the perfect slide of their lips and the perfect depth for his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth. John eases them down to the floor before the fire and cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair again, tugging a little, making Sherlock’s breath hitch.

His fingers trace patterns across Sherlock’s chest that he can’t make sense of, pausing only to flick an experimental nail over each of his nipples in turn. Sherlock has to remind himself to breathe more deeply, his breaths ragged and shallow as his consciousness follows John’s fingers measuring the sensations, surprised to find himself so transported by touch alone. Is he that starved of contact? Has he neglected to notice his body’s need to the extent that he is having to force himself still for John’s investigations or is this more to do with the man currently flooding him with input?

John’s palm strokes warmth into the skin of his belly and skims along the waistband of his trousers, dipping below it where he can.

“Sherlock?” John asks, resting his forehead against his. Their eyes meet, and John’s honesty and intensity are writ large in his unwavering gaze. He seems to be evaluating Sherlock’s response to their shared intimacy, judging for himself just how much he should ask for

“Yes,” Sherlock says before John can.

John’s grin is brilliant and his eyes twinkle as he scoots back onto his knees and unfastens Sherlock’s trousers, pulling both them and his briefs down and off, taking a second to remove his socks. Completely naked now, Sherlock feels an overwhelming urge to stretch, so he does, watching the way John’s eyes darken at his display. Good to know. Something to consider later.

His cock lies against his stomach, finally freed of confinement and that’s where John’s eyes finally settle once he has mapped him from head to toe. Feeling bold under John’s obvious approval, Sherlock curls a palm around his length and gives himself a long, slow stroke. It’s good, but it’s not what he wants. John’s tongue slips out again, giving himself away.

“Yes, John. Yes,” Sherlock says clearly.

“God, yes,” John agrees and rolls onto his belly and shoulders his way between Sherlock’s spread thighs. At the first gust of John’s breath on him Sherlock’s head thumps back onto the carpet and he groans. John takes his time, exploring with his tongue and lips and fingers. He can’t keep up with all the input, his mind flitting from one sensation to the next, greedily trying to hoard them all. But John’s touch is firm and grounding when Sherlock thinks he might just lose himself in the overload of awareness.

John’s mouth is sinfully hot, his tongue skilful and within a few short minutes Sherlock is panting and straining towards a release that feels like it’s been years in the making. John’s hand rubs soothing circles on his belly as he alternates between suckling at the head of his cock and sweeping long, wet strokes up the shaft with his flattened tongue.

It’s a revelation to be the soul focus of John Watson’s not inconsiderable attention. He feels as if he and John have shared such intimacy many times. They have a rhythm, a connection that feels too established to be so new. There’s nothing here that needs to be hidden or concerned about. He’s not embarrassed by his nakedness, by the obscene sounds of John’s mouth on him or by the way he is responding to it.

He plants his heels and rocks up into the sensations, the warmth and sweet pull of his mouth, making John hum his approval around him. He twines his fingers through John’s, spread across his belly, and John clutches at them, squeezing; another point of contact and communication between them. He’s so close now, John’s tongue against the most nerve-rich areas of his super-sensitized skin. Sherlock’s sighs and moans sound loud in the stillness of their sitting room.

He’s only seconds away from completion and has to see this, so he props himself up on one elbow. John’s eyes are closed and he looks blissful with his mouth full. His cheeks hollow and Sherlock’s toes curl involuntarily, watching the way John’s eyelids flutter in reaction when he wrings twitches and gasps from Sherlock’s body.

Pulling off, John breathes harshly over the crown of Sherlock’s cock, making it bob and strain for the touch of his lips again. “Yes?” His voice is wrecked, his lips slick and swollen as he gazes up the length of Sherlock’s body and into his eyes.

Oh God! Of COURSE, yes! Sprawled in front of the fire with John Watson poised between his splayed thighs – there has never been a more perfect ‘yes’ moment in his whole life. But John is waiting for him, wanting permission, wanting Sherlock’s complete agreement. And he can have it, because in this moment and all the moments since this stranger lent him his phone in a lab at Bart’s, Sherlock knows that he is John’s; mind and body in harmonious concurrence for once.

“Please,” he breathes.

John’s smile is sweet and open but quickly turns predatory as he takes a hold of Sherlock’s cock at its base and tips it into his waiting mouth.

His head drops back and he groans without shame as John’s clever hand squeezes and pulls just so in perfect counterpoint to the drag of his lips and the swirl of his tongue. He comes in long, wracking pulses, his stomach muscles seizing under John’s warm, soothing fingers and his breathing stuttered and ragged. Something hums and buzzes in his veins, dragging every cell over the edge with him, muffling his hearing, rolling his eyes back in his head when John swallows around him, leading him down into stillness.

He becomes aware of John’s murmured words, pressed to the skin of his inner thigh, his stomach, the crease of his groin.

“Yes, that’s it. Beautiful. Beautiful. Perfect.”

Is that really how John sees him?

“John,” he drawls, too relaxed to do more than touch a finger to his hair.

He takes his time, kissing his way up Sherlock’s body, careful to settle his weight where it won’t hurt him. Finally face-to-face, he puts his top lip to Sherlock’s bottom one and breathes, “Yes?”

Sherlock, _slow, slow, lazy,_ rolls his head and catches John’s warm lips with his own, tasting himself in John’s mouth. In itself, it’s not unpleasant, but shared with the rhythmic caress of John’s tongue against his own, it’s enticing. He wonders if John always kisses like this, with such single-minded intensity, like it’s everything.

“Yes,” he mumbles against John’s mouth, then more clearly as he pulls back to look at him.

John blinks at him, his head tipped softly, watching for a cue.

“Yes,” Sherlock says and spreads his hand, nails trailing, across his own belly, watching as John’s eyes show his understanding and a small, satisfied smile flirts with his lips.

Sherlock knows how hard John is, despite his best efforts to keep his groin away from Sherlock’s body, but he still cranes his neck to watch as John flicks the button and unzips, pushing damp cotton aside to take himself in hand. John is thicker in girth and similar in length, but where his own hair is dark, John’s is lighter shot through with a suggestion of ginger that Sherlock has noticed before in John’s stubble.

He’s not gentle as he works his length through his curled fist. He bites his lower lip rather adorably. Sherlock catalogues the way his grip shifts, where he reverses the direction of his stroke, where his fingernail scrapes just beneath the fold of his foreskin. He reaches out and swipes a thumb through the slickness making John buck harder and then groan when Sherlock brings his thumb to his lips to taste.

Curling his fingers around John’s, Sherlock feels his question, but he simply leaves it for John to decide as together they work him toward release. John reverses their hands, so it is Sherlock’s palm against the silky skin of his cock. He lets Sherlock feel the heat and hardness of him then demonstrates his preferred pace, as if Sherlock doesn’t already know this. He also knows how close John is when he slumps forward to lean across Sherlock’s body, his weight braced on one hand, so Sherlock deliberately sweeps his thumb across the sweet spot. John sucks in a breath between his teeth and shudders as he spatters Sherlock’s belly and chest with his come.

Sherlock traces the line of hair at the back of John’s neck, testing the texture of the strands with lazy fingers. John’s skin is warm and damp from their exertions and there seems to be no end to Sherlock’s hedonism once his guard is down. He fairly thrums with a thrill of self-indulgence at the fact that John is still mostly clothed, draped across his body, breathing erratically still.

Peaceful. Safe. Not at all boring.

Interesting.

Requires further study. Maybe in thirty minutes or so.

-o –o –o

It’s almost as if Mycroft knows when Sherlock is happy and feels compelled to come and rectify that. Not only has he solved the case of the credit card fraud ring _AND_ uncovered the car thieves he inadvertently disturbed while investigating the first crime, (a six and a three respectively, but it made John smile) but he’s also been _intentionally_ in love with John Watson for four days, ten hours and forty three minutes, and feels it’s all going rather well. So when he hears Mycroft’s jaunty… _jaunty?..._ knock on their door he’s sour but hardly surprised – Mycroft will want his moment of glory but Sherlock will be damned if he lets the giant idiot take all the credit for his current state of domestic bliss. He simply noticed something that Sherlock’s transport had known all along. It would only have been a matter of time before his considerable genius had come to the same conclusion - or John had become bored of waiting for him to do so and taken matters into his own talented, clever… warm… hands…

Right. Mycroft. Get rid of as soon as possible so as to return to contemplation of John Watson’s hands –probably with a demonstration to clarify certain points.

“No, go away!” Sherlock demands before Mycroft has even drawn breath.

John tips his head in disappointment and rolls his eyes at him, but Sherlock can see the quirk of John’s amusement around his lips.

“And good afternoon to you, dear brother,” Mycroft sighs with his best lemon-sucking face.

“Hello, Mycroft,” John interjects, disturbing their glaring contest. “How are you?”

“Well, thank you. No, don’t get up, I can’t stay.”

Sherlock had no intention of getting up, and he knows that John’s minor lean was only a token gesture.

“Oh?” Sherlock asks, blinking disingenuously. “Got a hot date?”

“As a matter of fact I came to talk to John about that,” Mycroft admits, smiling as he lets his eyes drop to the handle of his stupid umbrella. “I owe you my thanks.”

What? And… _WHAT?_

Sherlock opens his mouth to bark questions at his brother when the sound of footsteps comes tripping up the stairs, much quicker than they usually do.

“Sherlock, I know I said I’d come around this evening, but I’m busy after all, so I…” Lestrade freezes quite comically at the sight of Mycroft, who seems equally surprised by the sight of the Detective Inspector. They seem to spend an awful lot of time staring at each other these days Sherlock thinks.

They both speak at the same time.

“Mycroft. I didn’t know you were…”

“Hello, Gregory, I just came to…”

They both stop to smile at each other and…

Oh!

_Oh!_

Sherlock can only stare as the moment drags on and on and _on_ until John quietly clears his throat. Bored but tactful.

Lestrade recovers himself first. “Right. So whatever it is you have for me can wait until tomorrow morning, right?” He glances across at Sherlock who simply blinks at him before his eyes return inexorably to Mycroft, who is radiating quiet happiness in a truly disgusting manner as they share _a moment._

Sherlock believes that several areas of his gastrointestinal tract have deliberately ceased to function rather than live in a world where this kind of thing happens.

“Good,” Lestrade says apropos nothing. “I’ll see you then. And I’m switching off my phone tonight too, so you won’t be able to get hold of me. You’ve got Sally’s mobile number?”

All of that is apparently still for Sherlock, even though Lestrade doesn’t even glance at him again before retreating back to the door. John assures him that they have Sergeant Donovan’s number.

Pausing at the doorway, Lestrade says a gruff goodbye but shoots a quick, shy smile at Mycroft. “See you at seven,” he mutters and disappears.

Mycroft listens to the front door click shut before he turns back to John, sitting in his chair with a horrifying soft smile on his face.

“Thank you,” Mycroft says in an uncharacteristically direct manner. “I knew that anyone who could find a way to love and be loved by Sherlock Holmes would be the person to ask for advice.”

Nodding to Sherlock and John in turn, he leaves them in peace.

The clock ticks. Traffic passes. John drinks his tea – cooler than he likes it, so he gulps it down quickly. Frowns – dissatisfied.

John’s face is a mess of emotions and thoughts, one chasing another chasing another. Happiness. Smugness. Surprise – but not as surprised as Sherlock expects he should be. Thoughtfulness. Amusement.

Mentally, Sherlock is already covering his tracks. No one can ever know that Mycroft helped him to get what his heart has wanted all along, even if he currently has no clue that he has assisted him in any way. One day he will ask Mycroft when he knew and how he knew that Sherlock loved John, to find the ways in which his subconscious gave him away, but he won’t have to ask how he knew that John loved Sherlock. It’s right there, in that smile that John’s been smiling for months now and that he was too much of an idiot to recognise.

So he smiles back – something he’s become quite adept at since he first chased a serial poisoner across London one damp, drizzly, spectacular evening.

John looks at the fireplace, wondering if it’s too early to get a blaze going. Decides it is and looks back at Sherlock. Licks his lips.

His John.

What his heart (apparently) wants.

So in five…four…three… two…

“Tea?”

 

Fin


End file.
